


Cut and Run

by vellaphoria



Series: postscript. [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce's B- Parenting, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, dubious use of iPhones as metaphors, he's trying, maybe some implied SuperBat, tfw you crash your adopted son's 'business dinner' with one of your mortal enemies, the collective salt content of everyone here is twice that of the dead sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 20:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15202895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: When Bruce finally came back to Gotham, he knew that Tim taking over as CEO of Wayne Enterprises meant that the former Robin would have new responsibilities.Apparently he'd missed the memo that having a private, one-on-one dinner with Ra's al Ghul was one of them.





	Cut and Run

**Author's Note:**

> From an anonymous prompt on tumblr: "I was thinking maybe a post-Red Robin fic, with Tim, Ra’s, and Bruce? Maybe a Dick or a Jason as well? I just found myself thinking that Bruce has came back to such a different Tim, and that’s definitely going to take some adjusting for him. Plus, Ra’s, because, well. Ra’s."
> 
> Edit: Now with [art](https://khachalala.tumblr.com/post/177085141022/deadfall-by-vellaphoria-love-this-story-i) by khachalala - it's really awesome and you should check it out!

Clark put him down on top of one of the abandoned warehouses by Dixon Docks, just past the city limits.

They touched down lightly – enough so that anyone inside the presumably empty shell of a building wouldn’t hear them. Probably. Bruce’s scowl deepened, and the moment Clark’s feet hit the gravel and oil roof, he pushed out of Clark’s arms with a brusqueness that bordered on the offensive.

Despite his best efforts, Clark remained difficult to offend.

“Embarrassed?” The small, mischievous smile and the way one of Clark’s eyebrows was raised would look more at home on a pre-teen caught doing something they shouldn’t. In fact, Bruce was almost certain he’d seen that one on Dick’s face more than once after catching him using Wayne mansion’s chandelier as a trapeze bar. Never mind that there was a perfectly functional one down in the Batcave.

“Hardly.” Bruce grumbled. Taking a step back, he tried to brush Clark off.

‘Tried’ being the operative word. Clark didn’t let him. He placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling Bruce in so incrementally that Clark himself might not even have noticed he was doing it.

Bruce let him. After so much time removed from his world and everything he knew, less space between them was not exactly… objectionable.

The hand tightened. Clark’s expression shifted to one of such earnestness that it would have looked mocking on anyone else.

“It’s good to have you back, Bruce,” he said. A small, tentative smile worked its way into the set of his mouth.

“We just spent a  _month_  cleaning up Lantern’s mess,” Bruce growled. It was less effective without the synths in his helmet. “I’m sure you’ve seen  _more_  than enough of me.”

Clark just laughed. “I missed you too.”

Bruce hated it when people started building immunity to his ‘standoffishness,’ as Diana had once described his behavior. It made it much harder to keep people at arm’s length.

Speaking of.

Bruce shrugged out of Clark’s grip before he could go in for the hug. It would be disastrous if any of the rogues – or worse, Gotham’s _other_ vigilantes – saw him allow that sort of familiarity while in costume.

Clark looked a bit put out, though not particularly surprised. He shot Bruce a look telling him that he’d pay the slight back at a later date.  _With interest_  – especially if Clark got Diana in on it.

The  _things_  he submitted himself to keep the Justice League together…

Bruce reached up to his helmet, re-activating the voice modulators. The mission had wrapped up early and no one knew he was coming back that night, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to stop a mugging or crush a smuggling operation before getting back to the Manor.

“Good luck,” said Clark, already hovering a foot above the roof’s surface. “And tell the kids I said hi.” He gave a little wave. His tone was nothing short of apple pie and cheerful Kansas skies.

“Get out of Gotham,” Batman growled back. Clark flicked one of the cowl’s pointed ears.

Batman glowered.

Clark beamed. His thousand-watt ‘Superman smile,’ to be specific. “You’re welcome in Metropolis any time.”

And with that he took off, leaving a gust of air and a streak of red and blue in his wake. Batman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Showoff.

He turned back to Gotham proper, the skyline spreading out before him up close and personal. There would be time before he had to officially check in with Alfred; a perfect opportunity to see how his city fared in his absence.

Batman took his grapple gun in hand, raising it and firing in the direction of downtown Gotham. The hook found purchase on a distant gargoyle, pulling tight and secure when he tugged it to test the hold. He dropped off the roof, swinging out in a wide arc that carried him far above Gotham’s nightlife.

_That_  was how Batman liked to fly.

His aimless route carried him through two separate shopping districts before he met his double. The man who was Gotham’s Batman when Bruce couldn’t be.

Not that Dick wouldn’t be back on the streets as Nightwing the  _second_  he was sure that Bruce was back from his mission.

He heard him coming, of course. It was a subtle shift in Dick’s posture that told Bruce he’d been spotted, but the tell would only be obvious to someone who had spent years training him.

“You’re back early,” Dick said, not bothering to look up from the binoculars pressed to his cowl.

“It turned out that Lantern’s less of an idiot than the report indicated. Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.”

“Careful. Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment. Who are you and what have you done with Bruce?”

Bruce stepped forward to stand next to Dick but said nothing. Dick tried and failed to cover his wince.

“Too soon?” He asked,  _finally_  looking up from the binoculars and whatever had been so captivating about the restaurant far below.

“It’s fine.” Bruce brushed him off, tapping the magnification setting on his cowl’s lenses. “Tell me about this case.”

Because it was  _always_  a case. And Damian’s conspicuous absence meant it was either easy enough that Dick didn’t want the extra set of hands or too complicated to involve a teenager, even if his son  _had_  been raised by the League of Assassins.

But even after all the years Bruce had known him, Dick was still finding ways to surprise him.

“Not a case.” He sounded anxious. Uncertain. It was unlike him. “Well, not  _exactly_. It’s more of an … um. Let’s call it a  _professional interest_.”

Well.  _That_ couldn’t mean anything good.

He turned to the restaurant several stories below them. It was new. Very new, having opened during the month Bruce was out in space. The place was upscale.  _Very_  upscale. Middle Eastern fare, with a particular emphasis on recipes from the owner’s native Afghanistan, if the Gotham Gazette’s pre-opening promotional blurb was to be believed.

It took him less than a second to spot the problem.

“ _What._ ” It would have been a question if Bruce hadn’t been too surprised to phrase it as one.

“That’s what I said,” Dick muttered. “But I have no idea. Really.”

Framed by the golden light spilling out of the restaurant’s front window, two people sat at a table, one relaxed and self-assured, the other with tension written in every line of his posture. The pointed hair and deep-green business suit of the assured figure couldn’t belong to anyone other than Ra’s al Ghul, though he looked like he’d been restored by the Lazarus Pit rather recently. The tense one was Tim. Bruce would know him anywhere.

Dick tapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve been watching for thirty minutes, but they were already inside when I got here. When Tim asked off from patrol earlier, he said he had a business meeting, so I guess this means he wasn’t  _technically_  lying, but–”

“Dick.”

“Right, sorry. You probably want a plan of attack. Well, I’ve cased the restaurant and there’s an entrance in the back being watched by ninjas. A few windows, but you probably don’t want to make an unnecessary scene, especially when Tim’s dressed as a civilian. He isn’t wearing armor–”

“ _Dick.”_

“But knowing him, he’s probably wearing at least _something_  beneath his suit. Or the suit itself might be bulletproof. Or sword-proof, since we’re talking  _Ra’s_  here…”

Bruce unclicked the lenses’ magnification and turned to Dick, glaring at him until he trailed off.

“… what?” Dick was stalling. Bruce knew he was staling, and Dick  _knew_  that he knew but..

“Stop prevaricating. Just say it.”

Dick sighed. How he managed to do it with his entire body, Bruce still hadn’t figured out. “ _Fine._ Ra’s planned the setting perfectly. We’re not getting in there like this.”

“Why don’t I like your phrasing?”

“Because we’re not getting in like  _this_. But in the  _other_  suits…” Dick smiled. It looked incredibly out of place juxtaposed with his cowl. “I think it’s been a bit too long since Ra’s had an encounter with  _Brucie Wayne.”_

And, really. How could Bruce say no to  _that?_

 

_____________________________

 

The ninja pretending to be the restaurant’s maître d' gave him a  _look,_ but one flash of Brucie’s vapid, thousand-megawatt smile and she rolled her eyes before leading him farther into the restaurant. If it were just ninja in here, Bruce wouldn’t have bothered. But the establishment was new, critically acclaimed, and absolutely  _packed_ with both Gotham’s elite and the ninja disguised as them.

If Batman busted in here and interrupted a perfectly innocuous business meeting between Wayne Enterprises’ CEO and… _whatever_ Ra’s was pretending to be at the moment, they’d _all_ have a PR disaster on their hands.

If Tim weren’t sitting across from Ra’s,  _that_  would be reason alone for the stiffness in his shoulders. Bruce had seen it from as far away as the opposing rooftop. When the ninja led him into the main dining area, it was only more pronounced.

He barreled ahead of her before they were even halfway to Tim and Ra’s, surprising a small group of diners when he snagged the empty chair from their table. He swung it about, stepping around to sit on it rakishly, taking up slightly more space than reasonable as he sat at Ra’s and Tim’s table.

Neither Tim nor Ra’s startled at his abrupt entrance. Ra’s because of near-supernatural perception and having presumably been warned by the ninja. Tim because he’d been trained by  _Bruce._

“Tim, my boy,” ‘Brucie’ enthused, affecting his best upper-crust Gothemite accent. He leaned into Tim’s space to drape an arm across his shoulders. Tim tried to shrug it off, but he gave up when Bruce refused to budge. And kept talking.

“I come back from a  _month_  abroad to find you trying a new restaurant  _without me?_  By the way, the ski resorts in the Swiss Alps are absolutely  _lovely_  this time of year. You really  _must_  make more use of the family’s mansion there – but that’s beside the point. This is an offense, Timbo. A  _slight._ You  _must_  make it up to me by introducing me to your…  _associate_ who seems to have so  _thoroughly_  distracted you.”

Tim stiffened even further, if possible.

Ra’s narrowed his eyes.

“We have  _met_ ,  _Mr. Wayne._ I am  _certain_  you recall. Unless your memory has become as poor as your acting ability?”

“Ah, Tim! Your friend here is quite the conversationalist. Such wit!” Beneath Bruce’s arm, one of Tim’s shoulder muscles had started twitching. Bruce predicted it wouldn’t be long before it spread to Tim’s face.

Bruce made a show of touching his finger to his lips in an exaggerated pantomime of thinking. “Hmm. It’s coming back to me… I  _do_  remember you. Ray-sh el-Ghoul, right? Now  _that’s_ a mouthful. Heh, speaking of. I think I’ve made the acquaintance of your daughter…”

Tim had what seemed like a full-body spasm, pushing Bruce’s arm off of him with a mortified glare. Ra’s scowl deepened. He leaned forward, hissing in a harsh, low, voice, “ _Detective._ Cease this farce. It is an  _embarrassment_  – I’m sure Timothy agrees.”

“For once,” Tim said, his face still scrunched in mild horror, “Ra’s has a point,  _Brucie_. And you  _are_  interrupting.”

“ _Precisely_ ,” Ra’s  _purred,_  placing his hand on the table slightly closer to Tim than polite dinner manners would allow. “Listen to your  _former_  protégé,  _Detective_. He seems to have surpassed you in common sense  _long_ ago. You would not want to endanger your newly regained family’s trust by charging in unawares, would you? After all, he and I  _do_ have business of a… _sensitive_  nature.”

By the end, Ra’s look was blatantly lascivious. Undoubtedly an implication meant to unbalance Bruce.

That time, Tim’s visibly and deliberately allowed his eyebrow to twitch.

“I changed my mind,” he said, shifting in his seat. He turned to Bruce, patting him twice on the shoulder in a move that was halfway between uncomfortable and condescending. “You can stay.”

Were he Kryptonian rather than the pseudo-immortal head of a not-so-secret order of assassins, Bruce was sure Ra’s glare would have burned him alive. Lasers. Straight through the head.

“Excellent!” Bruce exclaimed, ignoring any and all conversational cues with the brightness of his tone. He didn’t try to muscle in on Tim’s personal space again; he had made his point. Anything further might tempt Tim’s intractable streak to resurface even further – and to turn against Bruce.

“Now,” he asked, pretending to search for a menu that clearly wasn’t present, “what are we having for dinner?”

Ra’s was a showman to the end. With a short hand signal that could easily have appeared as an idle movement, the doors to the kitchen flew open. From the other side of the room, a procession of servers who were – to the trained eye – obviously disguised ninja poured forth, carrying a truly obscene number of plate and bowl laden trays between them. If Bruce had had any doubts that the restaurant was anything but a front for the League of Assassins, the staff assuaged them.

Ninja after ninja stepped before Ra’s to present their offerings. He shooed away several with critical looks before finally allowing one of them to place a dish on the table. The procession continued in this fashion for several minutes, and many more ninja came and went before Ra’s had finished his selections.

Extensive spreads of  _naan_ ,  _chapli kabab_ , and  _aushak_  took their places on the table. Finally, a ninja placed a large plate of  _Qabili Palau_ between the three of them and the ninja dispersed once more _._ Ra’s stared intently at Tim until he rolled his eyes and snatched a piece of  _naan_ , shoving the entire thing in his mouth in a single bite.

Ra’s glowered. Bruce hid a smile behind a polite cough.

“Is it to your liking, Timothy?” Ra’s practically  _radiated_  disapproval.

“Is that really a question?” Tim asked. He was still chewing.

Ra’s sighed, air hissing through his teeth. “But of  _course_. As always, your satisfaction is  _paramount_  to this arrangement.”

“Arrangement?” Bruce asked, inserting as much vapid curiosity into the question as possible.

The annoyance dropped from Ra’s face like a pair of concrete shoes in Gotham harbor.

“Ah, yes. This dinner is a  _business_  arrangement, after all. A  _quid pro quo_ , if you will.”

“And what is the  _nature_  of this little ‘tit for tat?’” Bruce leaned into Tim’s space as he said it, lowering his voice to a mock-conspiratorial tone.

Tim glared. “Confidential, as a matter of fact.”

“How  _intriguing_.” This wasn’t working. Brue would have to try a different approach.

_“_ Tim.” Bruce leaned back out, flashing a smile that normally sent socialites to their knees. Tim merely raised an eyebrow. “You simply  _must_  remind me, how  _did_  you two meet?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. His hand tightened on the edge of the table, bunching the covering’s extensive thread count in a carelessly clenched fist. His smile was small and vicious. Vindictive, almost.

Bruce may have… miscalculated here.

“Ra’s is something of a  _contractor_ ,” Tim ground out. Each word seemed to cause him physical pain. “I needed to find something that everyone said couldn’t be found. Everyone but Ra’s, that is.”

Ra’s chimed in, all too gleeful to wrench open any crack created by Bruce’s misstep.

“I am  _quite_  excellent at locating the unparalleled and unique.” He  _radiated_  smugness. “Although in recent years I have found that even things once assumed to be irreplaceable may in fact be  _surpassed_.”

So  _that_  was how they were playing this?

Okay, fine. Bruce knew this game.

He scrunched his nose in something that hopefully resembled distaste, “there  _can_  be value in older models, you know.”

Tim looked mildly confused. “Bruce. When the iPhone X was announced, you already had the prototype XI.”

Which… he wasn’t  _wrong_. But for ‘Brucie Wayne’ to be seen with anything other than the ridiculously frivolous would be a character break of Vicki Vale-attracting proportions.

Bruce grinned back at Tim. “What can I say?” He asked, extra insipidly. “The name ‘Wayne’ is synonymous with innovation, and I’m a man on the cutting edge.”

Tim rolled his eyes, going back to working his way through a kebab when he lost interest in ‘Brucie’s’ posturing.

Ra’s scoffed. “Such senselessness. A vacuity your eldest has inherited, unfortunately. If I recall, when you went on your year ‘abroad,’ Richard had barely stepped into your shoes as Wayne Enterprises’ CEO before he ‘traded up,’ so to speak. I, for one, felt that the previous model was  _far_ superior.”

Bruce glanced to Tim. He seemed to be seriously considering throwing his now-empty skewer across the table. Bruce almost hoped he would; Tim’s aim was  _impeccable_  and Ra’s western-style suit was a little  _too_  spotless.

Instead, Tim sighed, letting the annoyance leech from his body. “That wasn’t supposed to be a metaphor, Ra’s. He literally gets Apple to send him their prototypes  _just_  so socialites can  _ooh_ and _aah_ over them. But, once again, trust you to read into things that  _aren’t there_.”

“But  _Timothy,”_ Ra’s said, the way he was looking at Tim shifting in a way that made Bruce deeply concerned. “There are  _many_  interpretations that may be derived from any given action. An explosion may be a threat as easily as it is an  _overture_.”

Bruce nearly had to do a double take. Ra’s  _was_  only doing this to get a rise out of him, right? But if this sort of behavior was a  _trend_ …

Tim closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, centering himself. He let the breath go slowly, sending it hissing through bared teeth.

“You know,” he said, his voice deathly calm, “every time I know I’m going to have to talk to you, I inevitably tell myself that it just isn’t  _possible_  for you to get worse. But you seem to  _constantly_  surprise me.”

“So, you talk often?” Bruce cut in. It was a  _struggle_ to keep his tone equally neutral. A dual narrowed-eyed look from Tim and Ra’s told him that his breaking character hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Finally, Tim relented. “Too often,” he said, dismissiveness creeping into his tone.

Ra’s smirked. “You insult me, Timothy. I merely seek to reassure myself that your potential is not being squandered; an oversight that has gone uncorrected for  _far_  too long.” Ra’s glanced at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. His smile curled deviously. “In no small part due to you and your heir presumptive – wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce  _bristled._ “Well, I think Tim is living up to his  _full_  potential in his role as _my_   _successor_ at Wayne Enterprises. He’s a  _fantastic_ CEO. I couldn’t ask for a better  _heir_ _to the company_.”

_That_ seemed to throw Ra’s. Bruce had him in a corner; there wasn’t a way he could refute that statement without hitting a  _little_ too close to Bruce’s true identity; and both of them knew  _that_  wouldn’t keep Ra’s  _entertained._

He stiffened all the same. “Perhaps,” Ra’s said, scowling. “Though you must excuse me for believing that he has not shined  _quite_  so brightly as he did during his time on  _my_  payroll.”

“There is opinion and there are  _facts_ , Ra’s. What do you say we withhold judgment unless we’re grading on a curve weighted for ‘corporate’ morals.”

“ _Morals?”_  Ra’s scoffed, outraged. “Do you wish to speak on Wayne Enterprises’  _environmental_ record? My people have done more for this planet than your company  _ever_ has. In fact –”

A small beep sounded from Tim’s side of the table. Ra’s and Bruce turned immediately. Tim stared back, phone in hand and positioned so both of them were in full view of the phones’ forward camera.

“No, do go on,” Tim said. His tone was superficially light, but Bruce had known him long enough to hear the undercurrent of deep annoyance. “If it wouldn’t raise certain  _uncomfortable questions_ , I’d totally post this. It’d go viral in  _minutes_.”

Ra’s grumbled something uncomplimentary about social media and ‘the youth.’

Bruce coughed discreetly into his curled fist. “Chum,” he started. Tim’s muscles tensed, possibly stopping himself from physically recoiling at the term. “When this is over, you and I are going to have a  _talk_ about WE’s  _privacy policy_.”

“You still have a gift for hypocrisy, Bruce. But, no, we aren’t.” Without preamble, Tim stood from the table, pushing his chair back with a soft rasp of wood on carpet. “ _Gentlemen_ , I seem to have lost my appetite. Enjoy the rest of your dinner, if you can _._  It was rather over-salted for my taste.”

Bruce and Ra’s looked down at the food, at each other, then back up at Tim. Bruce thought it tasted fine.

“Too subtle?  _Seriously?_ It means –” Tim’s mouth hung open for a long moment, then he thought better of what he’d planned to say and closed it. “Ugh, never mind. You’re both so  _old.”_

And then Tim stormed out. Just like that. Bruce glanced surreptitiously at the rest of the restaurant’s tables. A sea of wide-eyed socialites and business executives stared back. A camera flashed, disappearing into the pocket of an unsubtle member of the paparazzi.

Ra’s took a sip of his wine, staring critically at the glass. “Look what you’ve done,” he said, smugly. “I simply cannot  _wait_  to see tomorrow’s tabloids.”

Bruce leaned in close, angling himself so his words would not be overheard nor his lips read. “Get the  _fuck_ out of Gotham,” he growled beneath his breath, going full Bat in less than a second.

Ra’s raised his glass in a mock toast, swirling his wine slightly before downing it in a single draw. He stood, and every undercover ninja in the room stood with him.

“Your move,  _Detective_ ,” he hissed, too quietly for the rest of the restaurant to hear.

They left en-masse, leaving the room only half-full. The guests shared startled whispers, but from what Bruce could hear, the prevailing opinion seemed to be that the entire thing had been a publicity stunt.

He  _had_  missed Gotham.

Bruce made his exit quickly, slipping quietly out a side door and, once he was out of view of the restaurant’s dinner crowd, he delivered two swift nerve-strikes to the ninja still guarding it. Ra’s could collect them later.

He scaled a nearby fire escape, climbing to the top of the building where he had stashed his Batsuit. When he arrived, Dick was already standing guard, arms crossed with a deeply unamused expression on his face.

“That went well.” Dick wasn’t even  _trying_  to hide his sarcasm.

Bruce glowered. “I’d like to see  _you_  do better. He’s as inscrutable as Damian – Tim just hides it better.”

“Believe me, I  _know_.” Dick pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. It couldn’t have had much of an effect through the cowl’s armor. “I’ve been trying to get through to him for  _months_ now. But  _no._  He’s still entertaining Ra’s whims whenever the bastard asks him to. Dinners. Museum visits.  _Nights at the opera_. Half of me thinks he’s only doing it out of spite.”

“Unless it’s – “

“No, it’s spite.” A voice cut Bruce off. A very  _familiar_  voice, even with the synths. “Spite and boredom, actually,” Tim said.

Dick and Bruce – still in his dress suit – whipped their heads around. On the other side of the roof Tim stood in full Red Robin gear, silhouetted by a mess of Gotham’s late-night neon. He must have been keeping the suit close by in case the dinner with Ra’s turned hostile. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Tim pulled his retracted  _bo_  staff out, flipping it in the air with one hand in a casual display of threat. “If anything can be said for Ra’s, it’s that he’s very  _interesting._ A homicidal maniac, to be fair, but who isn’t these days?”

“ _Tim_ ,” Bruce said, stepping forward. A hand on his shoulder –  _Dick_ – held him back.

“Codenames, B. It’s  _Red_   _Robin_. For now.“ Tim’s smirk was sharp enough to cut glass before it fell off his face completely. He stashed the  _bo_  again and stormed forward until he stood right in front of the two of them.

“Why are you spying on me?” He asked them point blank. Bruce suspected there was really no  _right_ answer here.

The question aside, it would be  _bad_  if any of the rogues or particularly ambitious photographers were lurking close enough to see Bruce Wayne openly associating with two of Gotham’s masked vigilantes – though it  _was_  a small bit of luck that Bruce Wayne appearing on the same roof as Batman might quell some of the rumors.

“We weren’t  _spying_ on you–” Dick tried, forcing Bruce to drag his brain back to the present situation.

Tim practically  _snarled._ “Then what  _do_  you call camping on a roof with binoculars and sending  _him_ in to interrupt my dinner?”

Bruce stood up straighter, crossing his arms. “We just wanted to be sure you were  _safe_. And  _he_  didn’t send me in. I went of my own volition.”

Tim scoffed. “Well, since you’re  _so_  concerned for my wellbeing, that makes it  _completely_ okay.”

“We just –” Dick started, before getting cut off.

“ _No_.” Tim’s tone was forceful and invited no argument. Bruce nearly took a step back when he recognized it as the one  _he_  often used on Gotham’s streets.

“You didn’t ‘just’ anything.  _You_ I understand,” Tim threw up an accusatory hand in Bruce’s direction, “but you?” He shifted to glare at Dick. “Really,  _‘Batman.’_  I thought you said you  _trusted_ me. This doesn’t  _seem_  like trust.”

From the way Dick winced, Bruce would bet Tim was paraphrasing an old argument. Probably one circa Bruce’s presumed death, since he didn’t remember it hearing it back when Tim and Dick had run around as Robin and Nightwing.

Dick hid it well, but his distress seemed to be growing. “I  _do_ trust you, Tim,” he said. His tone held a faint edge of desperation. “But you haven’t trusted  _me –_ you could start by telling me  _what in the world_ you’re doing with  _Ra’s al Ghul_ , of all people.”

Playing on Tim’s guilt complex. Or trying to, at least.

Tim threw his head back, laughing. It was a bitter, sharp sound. Bruce’s stance widened, just in case. He wasn’t used to hearing that from  _Tim_  of all people.

“You said it yourself,” Tim snapped. “It’s mostly spite. Spite, boredom, and maybe a business interest or two, if you know what I mean. Also, free dinner. I worked with Noor during my year running the League. She makes some of the best  _Palau_  I’ve ever had.  _And_  she didn’t even poison it this time.”

“ _Running_  the League? And what do you mean  _this_  time –“

But Dick barreled straight ahead, cutting Bruce’s questions off at the roots.

“No, I  _don’t_  know what you mean, Red. Ra’s  _kicked you out a window_. How could you  _possibly –_ “

“And  _you_ kicked me out of  _Gotham._ ” Tim, said, halfway to yelling before he reined it back in. “But we’re still ‘talking,’ aren’t we?”

“I didn’t  _kick you out of –_ it’s  _not_  the same thing!” Dick threw his hands up in frustration.

“Keep telling yourself that.” There was nothing amused about Tim’s smile. He shifted his shoulders and the edges of his cape fell around him, draping Tim in black and turning him into nothing more than a shadow cut out of Gotham’s perma-dusk.

“ _Red._ Whatever you’ve gotten into with Ra’s, we can  _help_.” Dick pleaded, but Tim was already turning around, a grapple gun clenched in one hand held slightly away from his body.

He turned his head over his shoulder, giving them one last glance. “I don’t  _want_  your help,” he said, scowling deeply, “so  _stop following me_.”

The grapple gun fired, and he was off. Just a fading dark shape against the skyline. Bruce would bet good money that he’d be out of Gotham and on his way to the Titans or taking on some international case before sunrise.

Dick let his own cape fall around him. He stared out into the part of the city that Tim had disappeared into. “We’re losing him,” he said. There was a profound sadness in his inflection.

“He’s just going through a rough time,” Bruce reassured him. “I admit, I’ve been gone for too long. Things have changed in my absence. Dynamics shifted. But I remember when  _you_  were like that too – and you turned out just fine. Blüdhaven and Nightwing did you good. Maybe getting some distance will be good for Tim, too.”

“I hope you’re right, B,” Dick sighed. His shoulders sagged with the weight of it. “But with  _that_  costume. The one that Jason… look. There’s giving him distance and  _letting him go_. And I’m worried that if we don’t do  _something_ , we’re going to lose him for good.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. You’re right – Tim’s a goddamn mystery to me most of the time. And this thing with the League… Ra’s is supposed to be one of  _your_ rogues. Whatever interest he seems to suddenly have in Tim, it can’t be good.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I came back to find him burning through his ‘shades of grey’ like they were batarangs. Fighting Ra’s.  _Working with_  Ra’s. It’s all part of something bigger. I just wish I knew what it was.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Dick kicked at the bag holding the exoskeleton of Bruce’s batsuit. “But I guess there’s only one way to find out. Ready to investigate a renegade Robin, Batman?”

Dick had always been good at defusing the tension in a situation. He couldn’t dispel it completely – there were too many past mistakes, and too many likely  _future_  mistakes for that – but it helped a little. And at this point, Bruce would take what he could get.

He bent down to pick up the bag. “Just give me a second to change. Then lead the way, Batman.”

“Sure thing, Batman,” Dick scoffed, but it was done good-naturedly. “That isn’t going to get old, is it?”

Bruce went off to swap suits in lieu of giving an obvious answer.

Because having two Batmen in Gotham at the same time?

No. No it would not.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime after the conclusion of the Red Robin series - after Tim's tested himself to see if he'd let Captain Boomerang die but before the events of Break and Enter. Tim is Red Robin, Dick is Gotham's Batman, Bruce is International Batman, and Ra's is still a massive creep.
> 
> For the food listed; I checked multiple sources and - especially in the case of Qabili Palau - couldn’t seem to find any consistent spelling. So, if I’ve made a mistake with the spellings, names, or even the kinds/descriptions of food mentioned, please don’t hesitate to tell me.
> 
> If that's the case, or if you just want to help me scream about dorks in tights, I'm also on [tumblr](https://vellaphoria.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ...
> 
> Also, this didn't make the cut for the fic, but I love the awful pun so much that I'm going to put it here anyway:
> 
>  
> 
> “Huh.” Tim grabbed another piece of naan. “Nice bread.”
> 
> If Bruce didn’t know better, he would have said Ra’s was about ready to ‘flip the table,’ as one of his Robins might have said.
> 
> “You know the proper term for it, Timothy. Do not tell me you have forgotten our lessons in the time since you left my employ?”
> 
> “Ra’s, even you have to admit that, as a student, I was more than a little naan-committal.”
> 
> *kill bill sirens*


End file.
